


Uzh Tevun (New Year)

by dogpoet



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: K/S Advent Calendar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew of the <i>Enterprise</i> arrive on Altair VI for the coronation of the new president and the ushering in of the new year. During this time of renewal, Spock’s life, too, is about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uzh Tevun (New Year)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Uzh Tevun (New Year) /新纪元](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112963) by [curlybear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlybear/pseuds/curlybear), [dogpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet)



> > Beta by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/verizonhorizon/profile)[**verizonhorizon**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/verizonhorizon/).

Spock was not on the bridge, a fact he considered a dereliction of duty. Instead, he knelt before the asenoi in his quarters and attempted to marshal his faculties. In 2.12 hours, the _Enterprise_ would reach Altair VI, just in time for the new president’s coronation. The crew would be joining the crews of two other Federation ships as a show of support for the president, who was coming to power after a lengthy interplanetary conflict. It was because of Spock that the ship was behind schedule; he had nearly caused a diplomatic incident.

The door chimed, but it did not disturb Spock’s repose, for there was none to be had. The experimental drugs administered to him by the healers on New Vulcan had produced their intended effect, but they had left his nerves frayed. Every cell in his body was exhausted. He was not himself.

“Enter,” Spock called, rising to his feet.

As expected, it was the doctor.

“Came to check on that crazy biology of yours,” McCoy announced, adjusting his medical tricorder. “I don’t want you falling down in a dead faint or throwing bowls of soup tonight.” He looked at Spock closely.

Spock submitted to the scrutiny. He was ashamed of his actions during the last two weeks. He could not be trusted. The symptoms of pon farr had appeared without warning, troubling Spock’s body with their demands. He had neither bondmate nor home planet to which he could return. In this, he was like many members of his race. The destruction of Vulcan had left many in agony, lost, and sometimes dying, without their other halves. The Vulcan healers and scientists who remained had tasked themselves with developing a drug to assist those in need, particularly during the time of pon farr. Spock was fortunate that much progress had been made before his time came. It was not as fortunate that the captain had diverted their course to New Vulcan to assist Spock, and in doing so had disobeyed Starfleet and delayed their arrival at Altair VI.

“My status is satisfactory,” Spock assured McCoy.

“Satisfactory, my ass. Your hormones are all over the place. Blood pressure’s low. And you look like shit.”

“I am certain that I bear no resemblance to excrement.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately? I’m serious. I’m ordering shore leave for you as soon as this damn pomp and circumstance is over and done.”

“Shore leave is not necessary, nor will it be useful.” It was not rest that Spock needed. He had slept, but sleep did not improve his condition. He continued to feel tired and restless. His body’s systems were imbalanced, but he did not know how to bring them back into equilibrium.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, McCoy set aside his tricorder and folded his arms across his chest. He looked at Spock with sympathy. “The healers told me it would be a while before you got back to your normal, aggravating self. You can take all the drugs you want, but if you ask me, there’s nothing like the real thing.”

“I fail to discern your meaning.”

“Sex, Spock, sex! Your body says that every seven years you have to go at it, and you didn’t go at it. No pill’s going to substitute for a good, old-fashioned roll in the hay! Find yourself a filly, and get it over with.”

Humans had no sense of propriety when it came to private matters. In the two years since the start of the mission, Spock had attempted to accustom himself to the routine offenses and violations of which Humans were guilty. He had been only marginally successful. “Thank you, Doctor, for your excellent medical advice, but my private life is not your concern.”

“Like hell it isn’t. It affects your ability to do your job.”

“The fever is gone. I am in need of neither a filly nor a roll in the hay.”

McCoy lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. Fine. But I’m not leaving you alone until these readings,” he said, picking up the tricorder, “match the readings in the records from your routine physical.”

“Understood,” Spock said, more in an attempt to get the doctor out of his quarters than because he agreed to McCoy’s ultimatum.

When the doctor had gone, Spock knelt once again before the asenoi. He did not want a ‘filly’, as McCoy had so colorfully phrased it, but he could not deny that both his body and his mind did want someone, as illogical as it was to want what one could not have. Spock took a deep breath, calculating that he had 1.75 hours left in which to meditate. He would then put on his dress uniform and steel himself for the evening’s ceremony.

~*~

“You look nice,” Jim said to Spock as they stepped onto the transporter pad with McCoy and Lt. Uhura.

Spock glanced at McCoy. “I have been informed by Dr. McCoy that I, in fact, resemble the waste product of —”

“For God’s sake!” McCoy exclaimed. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“You told Spock he looks like shit?” Jim turned to Spock. “You don’t look like shit. Bones was just being a dick.”

Nyota stoically looked at the ceiling.

Spock refused to become embroiled in the conversation. “Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to transition to more diplomatic language,” he said as the hum of the transporter vibrated through them, and they disappeared.

“Dick, dick, dick,” Jim whispered in Spock’s ear, deliberately continuing his use of Terran slang in order to provoke a reaction from Spock. Following their customary pattern of interaction, Spock raised an eyebrow, though he doubted Jim saw it. As they materialized in the lobby of the temporary presidential offices, Jim transformed into a serious Starfleet captain, stepping forward to greet the Altairian diplomatic aides. “Greetings from the Federation. We’re honored to be here.”

“Greetings,” the aides said in unison. One of them continued to speak as he led them out of the main building and onto a spacious terrace, which looked out over a slope dotted with fruit trees and flowers.

The prolonged warfare in the Altair system had decimated Altair VI’s capital city, thus the new president’s coronation was being held in a nearby mountain village known for its music. The buildings had been turned into makeshift headquarters, and many structures had been erected solely to house the president’s staff and the guests scheduled to attend the coronation.

Spock was having difficulty concentrating. He could only describe it as a cloud in his mind. The healers had warned him his faculties would be compromised for 20 to 60 days, depending upon his response to the medication that had subdued the plak tow. He let his eyes wander over to Jim, who looked elegant in his dress uniform. Spock could feel warmth emanating from him as they walked beside one another.

Numerous tables had been laid out in a large rectangle on the terrace, and most of the guests were already seated. The Altairian aide ushered the _Enterprise_ contingent to a table beside representatives from the Andorian government. The sun hovered near the tops of the trees, casting a purple glow over the mountainside. The weather was mild and breezy, and a faint perfume came and went in the air. It was the beginning of the warm season, they had been informed, and tomorrow would be the first day of the new year. The coronation ceremony had been scheduled to bridge the old year and the new, lasting into the first hours of the next day.

During the meal, Spock was hyper-aware of Jim’s scent, the way he occasionally licked his lips and the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He had had very little contact with Jim during the events of the last two weeks. That had been intentional on his part. He had nearly lost control in the early stages of pon farr, before reaching New Vulcan. Jim was unaware that Spock had been doing all he could not to take him then and there. The desire had been almost irresistible.

When the meal was over, the crowd made its way to a stone temple, where the village’s most honored musicians were to give a performance. The inside of the temple was lit with hundreds of candles, and the high ceiling disappeared into darkness above them. The crowd sat in tiered rows around a sunken central stage that extended the entire length of the temple. The new president took her seat in the front row.

Prominently displayed on the stage was an instrument whose strings were fifteen meters long, supported at each end by wooden anchors. A group of six musicians emerged from the dark recesses of the temple, and the audience fell quiet. Two of the players held instruments similar to a violin and a harp. Two others carried what appeared to be wind instruments. The final two took up position beside the long strings. At first, the music was nothing more than the faintest hum, a delicate note that seemed to take a full second to traverse the room. There was no other sound, no shuffling of feet, no voices. It was as if everyone in the audience was holding their breath. Spock closed his eyes.

Over the next 27 minutes, the music built gradually, one note becoming two becoming three. The volume increased, filling the air. The sounds emanating from the strings resonated, making the air tremble. The tempo increased, too, as one of the string players took up a rounded piece of wood and began to use it like a bow, running it along the strings, then striking them to create percussion. Particles of sawdust flew up into the air with the force of the musician’s playing. They shone like single-celled, bioluminescent creatures in the candlelit darkness.

Spock thought of his kahs-wan, which had taken place on the vast plain of Vulcan’s Forge. He had gone out alone for ten days with no water, no food, and no weapons. He had only the clothes he wore. Each night, he built a fire, huddling near it for warmth in the cool desert nights. He had fallen asleep beneath the stars, staring up at them, wondering what secrets they held. He recalled playing his lytherette outside the family dwelling in Shi’kahr when he was alone and had no words to express how he felt.

Inside his body, Spock’s cells vibrated. His skin tingled. He could not explain how the music had awakened him from his drug-induced torpor. He looked over at Jim, who gave Spock the faintest smile. It was barely recognizable as a smile, but Spock knew Jim’s face well. He recalled the scene that had taken place between them two weeks before, when Jim had said: “Tell me what you need, Spock, and I’ll do it.”

Spock had not had the courage to say what he needed. Spock wondered if Jim might, in fact, have acceded to Spock’s biological urges had he been aware of them. Spock had not wished for such an outcome unless Jim also desired it. Jim habitually made his wants known, but he had never indicated a desire for Spock. Thus, Spock had not asked. Instead, he had requested to travel to New Vulcan, and Jim had made it happen. It was an unexpected display of the depth of their friendship.

The music quieted, becoming a low, melodic thread winding through the temple. The new president rose in her chair, and two of her cabinet came forward to lay the ceremonial shawl about her shoulders. Woven from traditional fibers, it symbolized her commitment to the traditions of the Altairian people. Its design was modern, however, indicating that she would also look to the future. She began to speak, uttering her oath like a chant, with music underlaying it. She expressed her promise to lead and her hope that peace would last. She stood until the song finished, then led the procession exiting the temple. The musicians began to play a new song, which would go on until morning when the president began her duties.

~*~

An aide led the _Enterprise_ crew to their rooms in the diplomats’ quarters. In deference to the music, which they could still hear, no one spoke. Nyota and Dr. McCoy entered their respective rooms. Jim paused at the door to his room, which was across from Spock’s. Aware of Jim’s scrutiny, Spock turned to him. Jim licked his lips once, as if thinking about what to say.

During the past two years, Spock had grown familiar with Jim’s every gesture and habit, and he had developed the ability to gauge Jim’s thoughts without touch, without mental contact. He opened his door and stepped aside, silently inviting Jim in. He could not deny that he wanted to extend their time together. Jim smiled, crossed the corridor, and entered Spock’s room. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and leaned up against it, surveying the room.

The village was located in a particularly mild region of the planet, and many of the structures were open to the outside. The guest quarters were no exception. The room was enclosed on three sides with walls of rough hewn wood still covered in bark, but the fourth wall was nothing more than living vines draped over a balcony overlooking a courtyard. The candlelit room smelled of leaves and some type of flower with which Spock was not familiar. The furnishings were simple: a sleeping platform laid with a pallet and pillows, and a sitting area, which was nothing more than cushions arranged on the floor. Music drifted in from beyond the buildings, and quiet conversations floated up from the courtyard.

“Nice digs,” Jim said softly, bending to remove his boots.

Spock watched as Jim’s socked feet emerged. Jim wiggled his toes. It was an informal conversation he desired, then. Spock removed his own boots, and sat on one of the cushions cross-legged.

Jim settled opposite Spock, quieter and more reticent than was customary for him. He tugged at a corner of his sock. “Bones says you’re still having some medical issues.”

“I am able to perform my duties,” Spock said automatically.

“Are you?” Jim looked up. “You think I don’t notice, but I do. Little things.”

“My mental faculties are not optimal,” Spock admitted, “but I expect to regain my equilibrium within 20 days.” The figure was optimistic, but Spock would devote himself to meditation and recovery until the haze hanging over him was completely gone.

“The other you told me things played out differently in his time.”

Spock did not like to speak with his older self. The two of them existed in what were essentially different universes. What had happened in another time was not relevant to this time.

“What happened then doesn’t matter,” Jim continued, as if reading Spock’s thoughts. “You’re alive, so I guess I did the right thing.” For a long moment, he didn’t say anything more. He stared at the floor, rubbing the rough wood with his finger, dislodging a flake of bark. “What’s going to happen in seven years? Are you going to do the same thing? Take a bunch of drugs?”

Spock was uncertain where Jim was headed with their conversation. “I expect the scientists will improve the drug, possibly eliminating the side-effects I am currently experiencing.”

Jim cleared his throat. He was nervous. Spock could not fathom why.

“Bones thinks that if you went the all-natural route, you wouldn’t have the side-effects.”

“Indeed. He expressed his views to me.”

Jim smiled. “Yeah. I bet he did.” He picked at more bark on the floor. “Is there a reason you don’t want to do that?”

“That is my affair,” Spock said. His skin tingled at the thought of the act. He had not felt such a response since the injection of his first dose of the drugs. The music had awakened something within him. He could still feel it coursing through his veins.

Perhaps due to the openness of the room, Jim had until that moment kept his voice low, speaking so that even someone standing ten meters away could not have heard him, but he suddenly raised his voice, letting his impatience show. “It’s my business, too, and not just for the reasons you think. I’m your captain, yeah, but I’m also your friend. A lot of things are different from the other you and the other me, but that’s not.”

“Agreed,” Spock said. He did not know what else to say. It was unlike Jim to be circuitous. He was almost always quite direct. Spock resisted the impulse to touch him as a means to better comprehend his thoughts.

“When I said I would do whatever you needed, I meant it. Why didn’t you tell me everything?”

Spock studied Jim carefully. Two years of command had deepened the furrows in his brow, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had on the day of their meeting. Freckles dotted his cheeks and, beneath his uniform, his shoulders. Spock had seen Jim in many situations and under many conditions — in sickbay, in altercations with hostile alien races, at diplomatic meetings, and at ceremonial events, such as the one that night. They had spent many hours together, playing chess, exercising, reviewing scientific research, and discussing ship’s business. But there was something different about him now. The candles scattered throughout the small room cast a warm, golden glow over his skin and hair, making it seem as if an energy field surrounded him.

“I informed you of my need to visit New Vulcan,” Spock said.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Look.” Jim paused to stare at the ceiling. “I’m going to put this out there because I know you’ll never bring it up, but if this happens again... I know — okay, I don’t know — I don’t _think_ you lean that way, but I lean any way there is, and if this medical issue comes up again, you can ask me. That’s all.”

Spock made a concerted effort to parse Jim’s speech, but he was unsuccessful. “I fail to comprehend your —” Then, suddenly, Spock did comprehend. “I see,” he said.

“Or if you need that now,” Jim added. “Bones thinks it’ll help you feel better. I’m not saying you have to. I’m saying I’ll do it, and you should tell me if you want to.”

Heat raced up Spock’s spine, a sensation he had not expected to experience ever again. He could feel his skin flushing green. It was as if tiny sparks were moving up his neck and ears and across his cheeks. “I do not wish you to do something simply because the doctor requested it.”

“He didn’t request it. You know I never do anything he says, anyway.”

Spock folded his hands in his lap. He was in need of meditation. While he appreciated Jim’s concern, their conversation was not aiding in Spock’s recovery. “The doctor suggested I ‘find myself a filly and have a roll in the hay’,” Spock said, knowing it would distract Jim.

The stratagem worked. Jim burst into peals of laughter, falling over onto his side, impact with the floor prevented by the copious cushions. Spock often cautioned Jim regarding his blatant emotionalism, but when Jim was unguarded, as he was now, Spock found him particularly compelling. Once again, he was possessed by the impulse to touch Jim, to feel the heat of his skin and the emotions pouring forth from it.

Spock was certain Jim’s reaction could be heard in the courtyard, and possibly in the rooms next door, but he did nothing to stop it.

“I can be that, if that’s what you want,” Jim said, finally, gasping for breath. “I could borrow a dress from Uhura. Do you think it would fit?”

Spock attempted to imagine what Jim was suggesting. The question about the dress was rhetorical; it would not fit. During his fever, Spock had imagined his captain in many ways, but never in a dress. “I do not believe a dress is required.”

“Good. Uhura might be suspicious if I went over there asking for her dress.” Jim sat up, scooted closer until he was directly across from Spock, and reached one finger out to touch Spock’s knee. He rubbed gently. “You’re blushing.”

The contact caused Spock to shiver. He stared at the prominent lunula of Jim’s fingernail. Jim watched him, his amusement gone, replaced by something unfamiliar yet identifiable. Spock tried to regulate his breathing, which had become erratic. He did not know what to do next. His entire body had awakened, and it was humming with a strange warmth. Perhaps it was Jim’s presence, not the music, which had energized him.

“Think of it as physical therapy,” Jim suggested in a low voice, undeterred by Spock’s attempt to distract him from the topic. “Isn’t it logical to do something that’ll get you back to normal so you can be on the bridge?” His finger moved from Spock’s knee to his hand, rubbing lightly at the fleshy eminence below his thumb, a particularly sensitive spot. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll enjoy it.”

Spock could sense Jim’s desire through their touch. He understood what Jim was offering him. If past liaisons were an indicator, however, he would likely want the contact only once. Spock wanted it more than once, but he could not resist, not in his current state. He extended two fingers. Jim met them silently with his own. The increased contact brought a surge of heat. Spock tamped down the surge, eyes closed, concentrating. The drugs should have eliminated the fever; it appeared they had done so only partially.

Jim leaned forward and kissed him, fingers coming up to skate along his jaw and the part of his neck not covered by the high collar of his dress shirt. A deft tongue brushed Spock’s bottom lip, then entered his mouth. Spock had never fully understood the Human fondness for kissing with the mouth — he had indulged Nyota because it gave her pleasure — but now he understood. His lips, his tongue, and even his teeth, responded to Jim’s every movement. Perhaps it was due to the imbalance in his hormones. Spock could not be certain.

Fingers worked blindly at the fastenings of Spock’s dress shirt. “You look hot in this, you know that? Every time you wear it, it’s hard for me to keep my hands off you,” Jim said against Spock’s mouth.

It was puzzling. He had become adept at reading his captain’s gestures and expressions, yet he had somehow missed this important fact. “I was unaware of your pre-existing attraction.”

“You hated me, and you were with Uhura. I tried not to let it show.” Jim tore at the fastenings of his own dress shirt, and tossed it aside.

“I did not hate you,” Spock answered, eyes riveted to Jim, who was yanking his undershirt off, baring his chest. “I simply had to adjust to your methods of communication and command.”

Jim kissed him again, pushing him back onto the cushions. They both went sprawling, and Jim’s hands found their way under Spock’s shirt, warm and slightly moist. Every touch, every brush of skin, required that Spock exert control over his impulses. His penis had already become erect, and he was rapidly nearing orgasm. He had never experienced this level of arousal before. It was confusing, neither like his old self, nor like the self who had departed New Vulcan, supposedly past the worst of the pon farr. He wanted to pin Jim down, to touch him everywhere, to be inside him, to join their minds. This last, he knew, he must refrain from doing. With Nyota, he had always maintained control, even during climax.

“Stop holding back. Nothing you can do will scare me. You know that, right?” Jim whispered in Spock’s ear while his hand palmed the front of Spock’s pants, putting welcome pressure on his erection. “I want to see you lose control.” Jim bit Spock’s earlobe at the same time as he worked his hand beneath his waistband.

Something collapsed within Spock. He rolled Jim onto his back, grinding against him. His fingers, suddenly clumsy, scrabbled at the fastening of Jim’s pants. Jim grabbed fistfuls of Spock’s shirt and pulled it off with several awkward maneuvers. He did not complete the task of removing Spock’s pants and briefs, but pushed them down only as far as necessary to free Spock’s erection. He fisted it roughly. Spock climaxed within seconds.

“Do not stop,” Spock said. His orgasm had not assuaged his need, and he remained hard. He could not think. His vision was clouded with bright color, bright need. Jim’s body, Jim’s mouth, crashed into his. A warm hand grasped his penis again, fingers sliding in slick fluid, the touch sending waves through him, reaching even his mind. He groped blindly, pulling Jim closer, hands overwhelmed by all they could touch: the smooth skin of Jim’s back, the roundness of his still-clothed buttocks. It was imperative that he mark Jim, claim him. He bit the tender skin of Jim’s neck, salt and pulse against his tongue. He sucked at a soft spot on Jim’s shoulder, the inside of his upper arm. Jim made no vocal protest, and Spock felt no objection through their contact; the marking seemed only to fuel the movement of Jim’s hand and the thrust of his hips. His system on overload, Spock came again, conscious of Jim’s fast breaths, the warm press of his sweaty skin. Jim’s arousal seeped into him.

Jim rolled onto his back, and the two of them worked to finish removing his uniform pants. Spock was impaired by his own pants, which were still half on, and he discarded them expediently before hovering over Jim on his hands and knees. The sight of the marks on Jim’s skin, the sight of his penis, erect and lying flat against his abdomen, inflamed Spock anew. He reached for Jim’s erection, letting his fingers caress the tip, slide down the length. When he closed his hand around it, Jim began to move, thrusting into Spock’s fist. Spock watched Jim’s face as he grew closer and closer to orgasm, as he closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. Spock could feel his own arousal ratcheting up, and he could not resist. With his free hand, he touched Jim’s face, and joined their minds for the briefest of moments, enough to fill Spock with Jim’s energy and the essence of his emotions, which were surprising in both their quality and intensity. It was all Spock needed to climax a third time. Jim swore softly as he came, his semen spilling over Spock’s fist.

Spock discovered that he was shaking. He let go of Jim’s penis and moved away. He did not get far before a hand grabbed his.

“Hey.” Jim pulled downward until Spock relented and lay beside him. “What’s going on? Should I get Bones?”

“That is not necessary. I am simply — I apologize for my behavior. I should not have joined minds with you without your consent.”

“I told you you could do whatever you wanted, remember?”

“I hypothesize that my lapse was caused by remnants of the plak tow. I was informed that all traces of it were gone, but that was an inaccurate assessment.” Spock wondered again if his mild relapse had something to do with proximity to Jim. It was a distinct possibility.

“I’m glad it wasn’t all gone,” Jim said. He kissed Spock, steadying him. “I never made somebody come three times in an hour. Not a guy, anyway. Do you think it’s over?”

“I believe so.” He was grateful he had not experienced the unmitigated symptoms of pon farr, symptoms that might have lasted longer and required penetration. The sexual release and mental contact had assuaged his need, however, and Spock did not wish to keep Jim if he did not wish to stay. He would most likely want to return to his own room to sleep.

Jim yawned, confirming Spock’s hypothesis. “Okay,” he said. He gazed at Spock, his eyes appearing dark in the dim light. “It’s nice, lying here. I don’t want to move.”

Spock knew, unequivocally, that he did not want Jim to sleep in another room. “Would you not be more comfortable in the bed?” he asked.

Jim arched his neck, looking backward toward the bed. “Yeah, but — sure. That way, if you need me…” He rose, still naked, and padded to the sleeping area, rubbing his abdomen absentmindedly. “You’re not sleeping there, are you?” He glanced at Spock.

Spock watched from where he lay on the cushions. He appreciated the way Jim looked, lit by the glow of the candles, his penis soft and sated, his skin marked, his limbs relaxed. “I will join you momentarily.”

“Good.” Jim turned back the covers and climbed into the bed. It was his turn to watch as Spock got up to blow out the candles, extinguishing them one by one until the room fell into darkness.

~*~

Spock woke 4.72 hours later. Light filtered through the leaves forming a curtain over the balcony, and the musicians were still playing. Feathers of sound drifted through the open room. The notes were hopeful and sweet. Spock had never heard music quite like it. Beside him, Jim moved, reaching for Spock, kissing his nipple, then his neck, then his mouth.

“How do you feel?”

Spock took a moment to assess the condition of his mind and his physical body. He had neither returned to his pre-fever status, nor did he feel the dampening effects of the drugs. His system was calm but changed. “I am improved.”

Jim traced the pattern of the hair on Spock’s chest. “Bones is going to take one look at his tricorder and know what happened, isn’t he?”

“It is likely.”

“Maybe we should do it again before he gets here and makes you spend all day in sickbay for observation,” Jim suggested, looking at Spock hopefully.

“I would not object.” Jim’s touch had an intense effect upon him. He could feel all the things that Jim did not say, and he was reminded of the things he had already said — _tell me what you need, nothing you can do will scare me_. What they had set in motion the night before was not over, Spock realized. It was just beginning.

Jim kissed Spock’s ear. “The other you told me he liked the other me.”

This fact did not surprise Spock. “They served together for many years.”

“They did more than serve together.” Jim touched Spock’s fingers with his, in the Vulcan way, then trailed them across Spock’s sensitive palm, his wrist, his forearm. He shifted his weight, climbing on top of Spock, kissing him, bringing their bodies together, skin against skin, bow against strings, singing.

 

 _The end._


End file.
